Becoming
by The Black Sun's Daughter
Summary: "What you're feeling now, that fear, it's just the leftover bits from when you died. It'll go away. You'll see. All that fear and uncertainty goes away, and once it does, you'll feel so much better."
1. Becoming

_"You'll thank me later, Professor."_

Fire...smoke...heat...

Pain...terrible pain...fear...blood...

Darkness.

 _"...something I was going to tell him..."_

Lights. Bright. Harsh. Hurts.

No more heat. Cold. Too cold.

Pain.

Jagged, sharp, hollow in his chest.

Burning again. But still cold.

Not right.

 _"...doesn't have family..."_

Darkness again.

Close. Claustrophobic. Heavy.

Pressure on his...everything.

Weight of the world.

Like Atlas.

Hurts still.

Maybe a little less.

 _"...but Christ, that's unnerving..."_

 _"...and help me get him..."_

Pressure's gone.

Pain's gone, too.

Not cold burning with harsh lights.

Not heat and fire with smoky darkness.

Warm...soft...safe? Maybe.

Better than before, at least.

 _"...still isn't awake..."_

 _"...took you even longer..."_

Feeling. Sensation somewhere...other...else...not here...

Movement? Little twitches, separately. Fingers. And a hand. Two, actually.

And the hand bones' connected to the arm bones...

Arms? And legs and feet...

A body. Huh. Forgot he had one.

He? Yes...he...him...his.

 _I, me, my._

 _My...what? Body? Yes._

More than bones. Cartilage, joints, tendons, ligaments. Organs, nerves, glands, muscles.

All working, but...different. Stronger. New.

 _Shiny._

Movement again. More of it now. Getting better at it.

Feels...soft, still. But new soft. Different soft. Better.

Other things present, not physical, too. Bits of...things, other than _now,_ which was most important.

Things other than _now_ could wait. _Now_ was difficult enough.

Bugger.

Pain's back.

In his mouth. No, not quite. Jaw? Closer. Teeth. Yes, teeth.

 _"...finally coming 'round..."_

Oh, _oh_ new sensation. Not good. Rough, painful, bad, get away!

Lungs work, air hissed out.

 _"...bit sensitive yet..."_

Bloody right, sensitive!

Darkness still, but different. Controlled. Could be ended, with effort.

Oh, but light hurt, stung, drew tears. Eyes shut, turn away. Try again later, when lights go away.

New things coming back, new sensations to go with.

Scent. Woodsmoke and leather and aftershave and forest, blood and recycled air and oil and plastic and metal.

Taste. Blood, rich and thick and newpenny and copper and honey and liquid smoke.

Hearing. Soft breathing and heartbeats (three of them) and quiet crackling and shifting fabric. And voices.

Ones he knew. From...from...before, before _now_ and before the pain and fire. But wait...no. Wrong. One voice was out of place. Shouldn't be heard, not ever again.

"Cutter? Nick?"

Nick? Oh. Right.

 _I, me, my. Nick Cutter. My name._

Voice was still wrong. Shouldn't be hearing that one. Not now, not ever.

"At least let us know you're still kicking in there, mate."

Pieces coming together. Falling together, finding places after being thrown far and wide by fire and burning and blood.

Frayed threads coming back, weaving into tapestry. Disjointed sensations reforming to memories. So close...seeking...searching...

A touch.

 ** _SNAP__**

Found.

Nick's arm snapped up hard and fast, hand in a fist, to connect with skin and bone. The impact trembled up his arm in a most delightful way, startling through his bones. The sound of a body falling back against hard floor, sputtering an angry, "Mother _fucker!"_ Another voice laughing, a bright, merry sound.

He opened his eyes slowly, adjusting to the light in bits and pieces. An unfamiliar room, unfamiliar bed, but familiar clothes. His best suit. The hell was he wearing his suit for? What was wrong with his other clothes? He had to close his eyes again because his mind was currently imploding with an overload of _new_ and _different._ Everything felt new and different. Even him. He was aware of himself in a way he hadn't ever been. He shifted, rolling his shoulders and flexing his muscles. He felt strangely aware of his body, feeling all his joints and muscles working in a way that was almost magical. Like a snake that'd shed its old skin for the strong new one underneath, like his skin had been peeled back and his nerves were all exposed.

"Nick."

He opened on eye slowly, still trying to make sense of everything swirling around all helter-skelter in his head and the new sensations that were taking over his body.

Connor? He wasn't sure he could make his throat work yet, still trying to get a handle on everything _else,_ and instead asked with his eyes. His student looked just as new and different. No more odd, mismatched layers. Sleek and neat suit. And fingerless gloves, dear Lord. But more than that. He had an air of confidence, of self-assuredness, holding himself upright and steady, certain. "What do you remember, Nick?" he asked quietly, voice low and urgent, no stumbling or stammering.

Remember?

He remembered heat and smoke and fire... Helen. And then pain, sharp and bright and...and... He lifted a hand, pressing it to his chest. Oh. She'd shot him. Bit not good. And then Connor, coughing and sooty and sad-eyed, coming to sit next to him. Nick had given him the artefact, told him it was his now. And...Connor's eyes had gone hard, resolved, and he'd pulled off one of his gloves.

 _You'll thank me later, Professor._

The taste of blood in his mouth. The darkness. The pressure, the claustrophobic feeling of being _close_ and _trapped_ and...oh, God.

Nick felt his heart pick up speed, breath coming faster. He'd died. He had died and been buried and had been in a coffin under six feet of dirt and...his suit. He was wearing his best suit. For his funeral. Oh, God.

"Nick, don't panic. You're alright." Connor moved closer to him, reaching out to curl one hand around his wrist. And the contact was like summer lightning darting up his arm, all his nerves prickling in awareness of the younger man's presence, not a student anymore. More important than that, so much more important. A siren song, calling through his bones and blood, promising safety and comfort and warmth, here with him... His body relaxed, melting down into a puddle of contentment on what he realised was a bed. Connor smiled, his voice becoming soft and lilting, almost a coo. "See? It's all alright, now, Nick. You're safe. I won't let anyone else hurt you, and once you've gotten a hold of yourself again, we can go find the others and we can all be a family together."

 _We?_ He kept saying 'we' like there was someone else...but there was someone else. The third heartbeat, the second voice, the one he shouldn't hear now or ever again. A new part of him which prickled with all-consuming awareness of Connor also felt something, some _one_ else, standing behind him, where he couldn't see, but he wasn't afraid. Connor wasn't frightened, so neither was he. Languidly, he rolled over, turning onto his back; the sheets gliding across his skin were a delight all their own.

But the sight which greeted him was enough to stun him into complete stillness, despite the summer lightning presence of Connor's hand, now gently rubbing his upper arm. Nick felt his breath catch and his heart shiver, a peculiar tightening clenching so sharp in his chest it ached.

"I know. Now I'm almost as ugly as you are," Stephen Hart remarked, the corner of his mouth turning up in a smile. Across his throat was a latticework of pale scars, one of them inching up his jaw to cut across his cheek, just missing his mouth. More scars darted this way and that across his arms, disappearing under his clothes.

Nick turned his head up to Connor, trying to make sense of what was happening, of _everything._ This was wrong, everything was wrong here, had to be, because Stephen was dead...just like Nick was supposed to be dead and...oh.

Connor slid fingers back through his hair, and Nick arched back into the touch, eyes drifting shut. "Shh. It's okay. What you're feeling now, that fear, it's just the leftover bits from when you died. It'll go away. You'll see. All that fear and uncertainty goes away, and once it does, you'll feel so much better. We'll be a family, Nick. Promise. I'll go find Abby and Miss Lewis, and they'll be with us, too. Proper family."

Family? Yes. That was right. Because Stephen was his brother, his friend, his companion. And Connor was...was their father, the ones that'd brought them to this new life where everything felt sharp and clean and good. And once they had Abby and Jenny, they'd be a whole family, just like they had been before, only with much stronger ties, these ones forged in blood rather than just feeling.

He opened his eyes once Connor took his hand from Nick's hair, only to see him peeling off his gloves, a sight Nick couldn't ever recall seeing before. Connor placed one fingernail against the fragile skin of his inner wrist and drew across, blood welling up easy and quick beneath the sharp edge.

Nick felt his whole being swell with a burning, glowing, brilliant sensation of...of...oh, hell, he hadn't a word for it, except that it was wanting and needing and lust and love and desire and craving and hunger all twisted and tangled up into one. Connor held his wrist to Nick's mouth, but now it didn't taste like blood used to taste, newpenny copper. Now it was sweet and rich like wild honey with a bite of smoke to it, like silk down his throat.

Vaguely, he felt the bed shift, heard Stephen's quiet whimper, "Connor? Sire?"

"Needn't be jealous of your little brother, Stephen," Connor murmured, and Nick opened his eyes to see Stephen leaning over Connor's other arm, mouth pressed to the crook of his elbow.

Connor was right. He _did_ feel better.

Gently yet firmly, Connor pulled his wrist from Nick and his arm from Stephen, the two small wounds disappearing in only a few seconds as if they'd never been at all. He fixed his clothes neatly and then smiled at them both. "Very good. Now, let's go get our girls, shall we?"

* * *

Jenny dropped her keys on the hall table as she shuffled through the front door, then slumped back against the wall, her breath leaving her in a ragged, gasping sob. She slid down the wall, hand pressed over her mouth to hold in any other sound despite the fact she was alone.

She had quit the ARC. She said that almost dying was a catalyst, but it wasn't true. Nick dying had taken it out of her. She couldn't bear working there so long as he wasn't there, it simply wasn't the same. However, she had stayed as long as she had for the team, because she knew that they couldn't bear another loss so soon. If not for Abby and Connor, she would've turned in her resignation the day after Nick's funeral.

Tears filled her eyes and spilled down her cheeks as she buried her face in her hands, sobbing. It hurt all over again, and she was beginning to wonder if it would ever _not_ hurt, that ragged ache in her chest, in her heart. Leaving had rubbed salt in the wound, ripped it open anew, knowing that she wouldn't ever be in that place again, never see anything of Nick's.

Finally, after the tears stopped coming and her breath was hitching in the way it only did after a proper crying fit, Jenny managed to get to her feet and start towards the stairs. She was having a good, long, hot shower, perhaps another good cry, and then to bed for her, perhaps for the next day or so.

Rough hands seized her from behind, an arm around her waist. Jenny opened her mouth to scream, but before could even draw breath, a rough, bricklayer hand was pressed over her mouth, a solid body pressed firmly to her back. She bucked and writhed, but then a low voice speaking in her ear made her freeze. She was quite certain her heart even stopped a moment.

"No, no, mustn't sing for me just yet, darling," Nick Cutter murmured against her ear. "Now be a good girl and come along with me. I'm going to take you back to Father and Big Brother, and then you'll be our new sister and my mate, just like we should've been before. And don't be afraid, either. Once you come back to yourself and all your pieces fall together, you'll feel so very good."

She was able to tilt her head back just enough to see his face as he grinned broadly. And there was just enough light for her to see that his teeth were _sharp._

"Come along now, love," he said, sharp teeth gleaming. "We're going to be a family."


	2. Best Laid Plans

She didn't scream, which was good. He would hate to have to gag her, she was to be his sister and mate. It'd be improper. By the time he had brought her back to their new home, she had passed out, from shock or fear or perhaps both. Either way, Nick got to carry her up the steps in his arms like a child, listening to her heartbeat. Before, he wouldn't have been able to, but now she felt light as feathers and air, not flesh and bone. It'd be so easy to simply tighten his arms and break her in pieces like china, but he wouldn't dare.

"Where should I put her, Father?" he asked.

"In the bed, over there," his sire and father replied, and Nick obediently carried her over to the bed, the same one he'd woken in, a four-poster iron-wrought bedframe with sheer hangings and silk sheets the colour of burgundy. The bower was important, a nursery suitable for an infant djamphir, as the sense of touch was first to return and strongest. He could testify to that personally. Very gently, he let her down in the burgundy silk sea, easing her out of her clothes with all the care he would give a lover, wrapping her in up gently in the sheets, brushing out her hair until it spilled across the pillows like a separate silk river, gleaming dark mahogany.

Father and Big Brother had explained to him what they were. Djamphir, what the humans mistakenly called vampires, a mispronunciation. Most of what was said about them was complete rubbish. The sun didn't hurt them, neither did holy water or crosses or garlic. They could be killed by burning, decapitation, or being stabbed through the heart...but then again, just about _anything_ could be killed like that, so it wasn't that surprising. They didn't sleep in coffins or need grave dirt. Blood was needed, but normal food was fine, too. And they didn't fucking sparkle, as Father had said crossly.

"I'll be back," Father said as he fixed his sleeves and put on his jacket, after he had given both Jenny and Abby his blood and murmured quiet words in another language. "There's arrangements that need to be made. We can't stay here, it's very dangerous. We'll be leaving in a few days, once the girls are awake. I'll have taken care of everything by then." He turned to look at Stephen. "You and Nick are in charge of keeping them safe. You shan't leave the house or let anyone in that isn't me. Understand?"

"Yes, Father," they said in unison, watching him leave.

Nick glanced down at Jenny's still form beneath the sheets, idly musing. Father would be tired. Even for a 400-year-old master djamphir like himself, making four fledglings within a year was an exhausting feat. But that was alright, because now he had them, his new family, to protect him. Nick smiled with the knowledge, running his tongue across his new sharp teeth as he knelt at Jenny's bedside and brushed her hair because the repetitive motion soothed him, as did the scent of her hair. He hadn't ever had a family before, not really, when he was still human, soft and breakable. Now he was all sharp and shiny new with a father, brother, sisters, and mate.

"Where will be going, do you think?" he asked.

"I don't know," Stephen answered as he bolted the door behind Father then began to check the windows to make sure they were locked as well. He was the eldest and therefore his younger siblings were his responsibility. "But we won't stay in the UK. The Order is here."

"What Order?"

"Order of Puritatem Hominem. The Purity of Mankind. They're the ones that hunt down and kill our kind. It's more of a worldwide organization, but their main headquarters are here. Father is going to teach us to hunt, and it can't be done here."

Nick turned that over in his mind, a sweet, dark thrill of excitement coursing down his spine at the thought of being taught to hunt. He knew just how good of a hunter his father was, drawn from blood-memories passed from sire to fledgling. Father had been born in a country strife with war and conflict, even after he was remade, and he had learned the art of causing the sweetest pain from his human parents. To be taught to do such things himself made Nick wriggle with eagerness. He liked South America. Before, the heat had been what bothered him most, but it wouldn't anymore. Open flame would hurt, but heat wouldn't. Just last night he'd gone and placed his hand on the electric stovetop, just to see. It'd tingled and warmed his palm slightly. He had a feeling that if he could touch a stovetop without hurting, then the humidity and heat of South America wouldn't be much of a hurdle.

He set down the brush and began to braid Jenny's hair. He was quite good at that, too. When he was a boy, his elder sisters had forcibly ingrained such knowledge into him. She was very still, but that was alright; he could hear her heartbeat, even if her chest didn't move as she breathed so shallowly. "Will they sleep a long time?" he wondered, glancing over to the other bed in the large room; Abby's still form was curled up behind the sheer hangings. It was a bad idea to keep two newborns in the same bower, they had a tendency to attack as soon as they woke. The bruise on Stephen's jaw was testimony.

"Not as long as we did, no."

"Why?"

Stephen glanced at his younger brother. He didn't mind answering questions; he'd been full of so many of them himself when he woke up. Connor had answered most of them, though there were always more to be asked. "Because we were dying. My heart was on its very last when Father remade me, so was yours. It takes longer for us to wake because we had to heal everything first before we could finish being remade," he explained, recalling every word that his sire had told him verbatim. "They don't have to heal anything. They'll be awake soon."

They were silent for a moment, but then Stephen spoke again, his voice very quiet in the stillness of the room. "I am sorry."

"For what?"

"For Helen." Stephen no longer cared about things from his human life, they were trivial at this point, but that was something which had always itched at him, even after his remaking. He had been very, very stupid and very, very naïve and had allowed his naïveté to sour a friendship that was almost brotherhood. He had distanced himself from his team, his _family_ because of that harpy, and he had gotten himself killed over her, too. He couldn't stand being separated from his family again, especially not for her, and he wanted to know that things were right with him and his brother.

Nick made a face at the mention of his former wife. The thought of her and Stephen no longer brought forth that sharp, bitter twist of regret and loathing in his chest, nor did he feel any resentment over the affair. That had all been swept away with his new life, the other things folded up and put away like unwanted toys. "I never liked her very much, anyways. I loved her when I was human, but I didn't ever like her. But that's gone now. I forgive you." He looked up at Stephen, a tentatively hopeful look in his eyes as he offered, "If ever we come across her again, I'm sure Father will let us have her. We can kill her together, if you'd like."

Stephen grinned at the thought of making _her_ the prey for once, chasing and stalking and making her smell of fear. "I'd like that very much."

* * *

James Lester looked up as Temple walked into his office, an acerbic dismissal on his tongue. But it dissipated the moment he realised that he wasn't looking at Connor Temple. The human persona, the stumbling boy that tripped on his own feet and words, had been folded up and put away like an unneeded overcoat. He set down his pen and straightened up in his chair. "Please have a seat, András," he said smoothly.

"Too kind, James," András replied as he sat, resting one ankle on the opposite knee. To the casual observer, he didn't look any different than usual, save for a drastic 180 in the wardrobe department, but James could see the tiredness in his eyes, the way his aura wasn't quite so vibrant at the moment. Exhaustion like that could only mean one thing.

"I see we've moved ahead of schedule," he remarked, opening the locked drawer in the bottom of his desk and taking out the files there.

András let out a quiet sigh. It was only a mild statement of fact, but he had known James long enough to read all that was unsaid within that simple sentence. "Unfortunately, yes. You know I didn't intend to, but as the saying goes, the best laid plans of mice and men make absolutely no difference to Helen sodding Cutter," he replied, reaching up to pinch the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger, brow furrowed. The weariness was catching up to him quickly, leaving him with a dull ache behind his temples and a discomforting sensation in his joints. It would go away in a fortnight or so, given that he rest and eat well. "It was hard enough keeping Stephen a secret, but Nick as well...I couldn't do it. Besides, James, you're always harping on about wanting to get rid of us. Well, here's your chance. You'll have an entirely new team to mould to your wishes."

The bureaucrat let out a breath. It was true, he often lamented the ragtag civilian team, but, as much as it pained him to admit, he'd rather have Cutter and the island of misfit toys than a new team to break in. He looked at the files resting on his desk for just this occasion, the personnel files of hand-picked individuals to replace the team. He had hoped it would be some time yet before he had to take those files out, but as András said, Helen Cutter had this rather nasty habit of buggering up everyone else's plans. "Where will you be going?" James asked at last. Keeping four fledgling djamphir in London, so close to the Order, was inviting death, even for a master of the Báthory line.

"South America, most likely. Where the night is dark and full of terrors and where people still believe in magic," András replied, then, after a pause, added, "And a detour to Csejte, of course. _Anya_ will want to meet her grandchildren."

"Do you think she will accept them?" James mused. The inner workings of djamphir relationships were still largely a mystery. They were pack hunters, but little other than that was known of them. Some operated in familial units, with the sire as the parent, but it was far more complicated than that, nothing like the human idea of family. András had been turned by his mother, his actual mother, not simply his sire. Therefore, any djamphir sired by András would be her 'grandchildren.'

The other man snorted. "Are you kidding? 400 years, and she's no different from any other mother. She'll ask what took me so bloody long," he replied wryly.

"I still wish to know what makes them so unique," James said. He wasn't so lucky to have known András all four hundred and thirteen years of his life, but he had known the djamphir for over half of them. In all that time, András had never shown much if any interest in siring others, even once he was a master and yearned for such a thing. And yet, just two months after the discovery of the first anomaly, András had come to James and informed him that one way or another, he would be turning the civilian team. Even a mage as old and powerful as James wouldn't think to argue with a Báthory, though both agreed to give it time, time enough for them to learn about the anomalies and the creatures, because once turned, it would be a good deal of time before they would act themselves again. Of course, that was before Helen Cutter decided to bugger it all up by killing Stephen and Cutter.

András sighed heavily. "I don't even know," he replied. Oh, he had some ideas, but they were impossible to articulate properly. They were all just so...vibrant. Full of such life and light whilst all having their own personal darkness, walking contradictions of themselves. They weren't afraid to get their hands dirty but didn't let it harden their hearts. And he could tell already that they would be prodigious.

When djamphir were turned, they did not lose their souls. Rather, they became the distilled essence of what they were when they were human, what was left after the softness of moderation and mercy and conscience was burned away. As a human, Nick had been a man of love; as a djamphir, he was one of all-consuming passion. As a human, Stephen had been a hunter; as a djamphir, he would be the most ruthless of predators.

"But I have all the time in the world to find out, now, don't I?" he remarked with a smile, allowing his wisdom teeth to extend down over his human set. Another misconception of humans' was that djamphir had only two sharp canine teeth. It wasn't true. Rather they had an entire second set of needle-sharp fangs that could retract into their gums, far more efficient for hunting and killing prey.

James, for his part, didn't flinch at the sight. He'd been around the djamphir for too long to be unnerved by the sight of wisdom teeth. "I'll have everything taken care of, András," he said. "But would you at least do me the courtesy of letting me know when you're safe?" As much as he preferred to keep it secret, James wasn't entirely heartless. He had known András for the better part of two centuries, and the other man was his oldest and most valued companion. He would be rather...distraught, should anything happen to the djamphir, or his new family.

"Of course." András rose to his feet and straightened out his jacket neatly. He had to get back soon; it was only a few hours before sunrise. Djamphir weren't actually vulnerable to sunlight. The sun was always shining on some part of the world, after all, but it _did_ make them tired, weakened their power, and could even make them ill through prolonged exposure. They were nocturnal hunters, therefore sleeping during the day was quite logical, however it soon gave rise to the myth that pulling them out into the sun would cause spontaneous combustion. Newborns were particularly vulnerable to day sickness. "Say hello to Victoria and the children for me, yes? I think it'll be some time before I have the chance to do so in person," he mused as he walked out of the office.

James watched him go, then sighed and drew the personnel files closer to him.

Bloody Helen Cutter.

Of course, if she ever ran into András and his new family, he had a feeling she wouldn't much of a problem afterwards.


	3. Travelling

Dawn's earliest light was beginning to shade the eastern horizon with grey when he returned to the house where he had hidden away his new family. Connor yawned widely as he ascended the front steps to the door. He hadn't felt so tired in a long time. Pushing open the door, he knew that the girls were close to waking. Nick was crouched at Jenny's bedside, though not so close as to be within reach of a punch should she wake violently. "They smell differently," Nick remarked.

"Then it'll be soon," Connor replied. Scent was one of the last things to change during the process. He left Jenny to Nick's observation and went to stand at Abby's bedside, sitting on the very edge of the mattress. She looked very peaceful, as though she was merely asleep, and much younger, the worries of waking life eased away. He couldn't remember the last time a mortal female had ever attracted him as greatly as she had. There had been a few which stirred his interest and his lust, but never one quite so completely and wholly as Abigail Sarah Maitland. He hoped that she would be his mate, though he wouldn't force her into anything, sire or not.

Stephen came around to stand beside him. Having already been djamphir for several months, the rush of new life had already begun levelling out in him, though he still had the naïve and childish mindset that all newborn had for the first few years. It only made sense, because after all, in a sense, they _were_ children, just finding their feet in a completely new existence, as helpless and in need of guidance as any human toddler. He lifted one hand without looking, and Stephen crouched on his heels, pushing his head beneath the proffered hand, purring in quiet delight to know he had pleased his sire.

Stephen was eager for his new sisters to awaken just as much as Nick and Father were. He knew that once they were all together and able, they would be leaving, most likely for South America, to learn how to hunt. He had missed South America, the heat and the jungles, the danger it presented, though now he imagined it would be so much more, sharp and clear and shiny. Connor would teach them how to use their new senses to the best of their ability, how to stalk and kill silently like the beautiful deadly jaguars that Stephen had always admired.

He reached out and gently drew his fingertips across the fine white-blond strands of his sleeping sister's hair, as smooth and fine as any silk.

One of Abby's little hands shot towards Connor's face, much the way Nick had lashed out at Stephen when he first woke. Except that unlike Stephen, Connor's superior reflexes, honed by the centuries, allowed him to pull away before she made contact. Air hissed out between her clenched teeth as she kicked her legs and tried to flail away from them, rolling off the edge of the bed. Instead of falling flat on her back, new instincts made her twist around and land on her toes and fingertips like a cat.

"Here, now, little bird, there's no need for that," Connor said, moving around the end of the bed to the other side.

Abby hissed and tried to scramble away from him, though she couldn't quite coordinate all her limbs properly and sprawled limply on the floor. Connor glanced across the room to the second bed, wondering if Jenny was faring any differently.

The dark-haired woman was sitting up, panting rapidly in panic. Nick was sitting beside her, and she had burrowed into his chest, hands smoothing over his shoulders and arms as if to reassure herself he was real. He stroked her hair, spilling down her naked back in a wash of glossy ringlets, and purred softly, a low rumbling like the noise a great cat might make when fondled, soothing her. At least one of them was taking this well.

Connor knelt on the floor beside Abby, not touching but close enough to not be ignored. "Abby," he said quietly. She had buried her face in her folded arms, breath shuddering slightly. He had seen into her past via blood-memories, had seen her abused and mistreated as a child. She was afraid, more than anything, of being that vulnerable again, of being rendered helpless. "Abby, you're safe. Nobody here is going to hurt you. I promise. Look up. Look. It is only friends here."

She lifted her head slowly, either recognising his voice or obeying her sire, either one. Stephen was kneeling in front of her, only just close enough to touch, watching her with concern in his eyes. Abby extended one hand towards him, and he mirrored her gesture until their fingers brushed. She stared at their joined hands a moment, a crease between her brows, then looked up at him and said, "You ought to be dead."

"I know," Stephen replied. "So should he."

He pointed towards Nick, still sitting on the other bed with Jenny, and the petite blond followed the gesture. She blinked rapidly, seeing not one but two living dead men before her, then turned over onto her back, never releasing Stephen's hand, looking up at Connor. "Have I finally gone 'round the bend?" she asked.

Connor tipped his head back and laughed, sitting back on the floor. "No, no, little bird, you haven't. Oh, Abby, there's so much we have to talk about."

* * *

It took him another three days to get everything sorted out properly and for his girls to begin settling into their new skins, but before the week was out, they were sitting in Heathrow airport, waiting for their flight to begin boarding. Connor preferred to travel light, especially considering this was only the first leg of their journey, and they each had with them only a single carryon with extra sets of clothing and a few personal items in it. They could always get more once they'd settled. For each of them, he had procured all the documents necessary for leaving the country, all of them under false names. One could never be too careful. Nick had marvelled at how swiftly Connor had gotten hold of such things, but all things were possible with the right connections.

Connor sat in one of the airport's less-than-comfortable seats, glancing towards the board every now and again. He'd missed the Americas, actually. The last time he'd been across the pond, as it were, horses were still the only mode of transportation other than one's own two feet. It would be good to return now, in the age of technology. The wait probably would've bored him, if not for the fact that his new family was full of questions which he was always glad to answer.

"Is Lester like us?" Nick asked, making a slight face; he sat in the row of chairs which faced Connor's, Jenny sitting beside him. He still didn't like the suited man, though his animosity was much less now than it had been before.

"No, no, _gyermek,_ he isn't," Connor replied, still running a gentle hand across Stephen's hair. The tracker had taken the seat beside his sire's and was leaning into the other man's side, one of Connor's arms around him. "James is a mage."

"Mage?" echoed Nick and Jenny in unison. The two could hardly be separated since her remaking, and Connor had a creeping suspicion that the pair were mates, proper mates.

He nodded, smiling internally; there was so much for them to learn, so many things he had to teach them yet. "Magicbenders, spellweavers, the names for their kind are almost as numerous as ours. James is, for the most part, still a human. The only difference is that he will live several centuries longer than normal humans. See, mages are born with powerful magic in their blood, and it is this magic which gives them their incredible longevity. And James is a fourth-generation mage, which means he will live a long time even amongst others of his kind. The stronger the magic is in an individual, the longer they can be expected to live. His children are just as prodigious, and we can expect to see them still youthful and fresh at the turn of the next century."

Abby came to sit in the chair on Connor's other side, curling into his side and tucking her head into the hollow of his shoulder. He placed his arm around her shoulders, and she made no move to shrug him off as she would've before. "How long have you known him, then?" she queried, cuddling into his chest. It was where she felt safest and most loved, tucked into the embrace of her sire.

"Hm...1761, I do believe. Yes, that's the year. He was still a strapping young man then, and a bit too hotheaded for his own good," Connor remarked, fondness colouring his tone as he recalled the young mage, still growing into his own magic, ready to challenge anyone that looked at him cross-eyed.

Jenny laughed, a merry sound that warmed the air. "Lester? Hotheaded?"

"Oh, yes. He was young and hormone-riddled once, just as we all were. The teenage-rebellion phase tends to be much worse in mages, because as the body matures, so does the magic. It tends to make one very irritable and easily provoked." The master djamphir was quiet for a moment as he called for the memories of when he first met the intrepid young James, though his last name had been Miller then. The fool boy had let his temper and his pride get the better of him and had been painted into a tight corner with several very unpleasant skinwalkers that'd been set to make themselves a mage-skin throw rug. Connor had intervened, using his greater age and ability to drive away the abhorrent creatures. To this day, he still couldn't say why he had done so. Something about James simply...intrigued him, much in the same way the members of the team did. Though mages and djamphir tended to keep to themselves, neither allies nor enemies, he and James had remained friends in all the years to come.

He would have told them that story, but their flight had begun boarding. "Time to go, _gyerekek."_

As they made their way towards the gates, each with their own small carry-on, Abby fell into step behind him and laced her fingers with his, lightly swinging their arms. "What does that word mean? The one you called us just then? Gyrekik."

 _"Gyerekek,"_ he corrected. "It's a Hungarian word, it means 'children.'"

"Hungarian," she repeated, staring up at him.

Aware of their eyes on him, Connor explained, "I was born in Hungary, little bird, when I was human, and I moved to England a very long time ago. But that is a story for another time, when we are safe and free of this place, yes?" He had been living in the UK long enough that anyone would believe he had been born here. He'd adopted the accent and dialect seamlessly, but once he relaxed, allowed himself to be himself instead of the human persona he'd so carefully crafted, snippets of his mother tongue would invariably slip in, and his voice would change slightly.

He could feel the unease radiating from his new family the closer they got to the gate. Being in a pressurized metal tube 30,000 feet in the air with nothing but humans, with no way to escape or hide, was a stressful undertaking for any djamphir. Even Connor, old as he was, felt slightly uneasy with flying, but for newborns only a few days old... He reached out with his power, through the bond between sire and fledgling, to soothe away their fear and replace it with a steady calm that would last for hours yet. He rarely exercised that kind of power over others because it had a nasty tendency of stifling the personality, like a human taking drugs, and right now was a critical time for them, as they shook off the last vestiges of humanity and their new djamphir selves took shape. At the moment it was necessary, however. There was no way to get them safely through the flight otherwise.

Before they even took off, Nick had fallen asleep, so had Jenny, leaning up against his shoulder. Stephen drew up his hood and slid low in his seat, eyes heavy-lidded yet aware. Abby snuggled up into Connor's shoulder and was soon asleep as well. They'd likely sleep the entire flight. Connor laid his hand over Abby's, resting on his thigh, and smiled as he looked out the window. A master without his family was no master at all, and for the first time in a very long time, he felt like a proper djamphir. Soon enough they'd be in the States, and from there, they could make their way down to South America, to the rainforests and mountains where he could teach his new children how to hunt and chase and kill and they'd be a family together.

He was feeling better already.


	4. First-Timers

The cool night air whipped through the truck's open windows to bring to Connor's nose the scent of a nighttime desert: sand, residual heat, reptilian musk, and sunbaked earth. Stephen was sitting in the passenger seat, observing closely when Connor shifted gears; he didn't know how to drive a stick shift. In the backseat, Nick was lying down, stretched out across Jenny and Abby's laps. He had taken with day-sickness during their week-long venture across the United States, and his sisters were busily coddling their big brother.

Connor glanced in the rearview mirror at three of his children. Nick had his head buried in the folds of Jenny's velvet skirt, whimpering at the vicious headache that accompanied an attack of day-sickness. Jenny gently massaged his temples and cooed softly to him as Abby patted his thigh. Spotting light up ahead, he downshifted and slowed the vehicle slightly. It was a small petrol station, just a small dingy little building meant to provide momentary reprieve to the truck drivers and dogged travelers passing through this remote stretch of desert. There were only two trucks parked in the lot, and another behind the building. Probably three or four people inside.

Abby peered out the window as they rolled to a stop in front of one of the pumps. They still had a good half-tank left, there was no reason to be stopping yet. "Father?" she asked curiously.

"We're stopping for supper," Connor replied. "Wait here." He got out and went into the stop. The station was a cross between the usual petrol station and a greasy spoon diner, and there were three grimy-looking, unshaved truckers sitting in the tall stools at the counter with coffee and plates of premade food, trying to revive themselves for the next leg of the journey. Behind the counter was a lone clerk, an elderly fellow with thinning silver hair. Connor paid for the petrol with cash, naturally, taking care to keep his head bowed, face away from the small, cheap CCTV in the corner, if it even worked. Returning outside, he began filling up the truck whilst speaking quietly through the open window.

"There's four people inside. Three drivers and a clerk. They're all yours. Don't worry about the mess you'll make, it doesn't matter. I'll destroy the CCTV when we're done," he instructed, four pairs of shining eyes on him. He directed his focus to Abby. "Now listen close, little bird, this is important. You must get over the counter and get the clerk first. He may have a gun behind the counter. A bullet shan't kill you, but it will hurt and take a long, painful while to heal, understand?" he instructed; she bobbed her head enthusiastically. "I'll hold the doors from outside."

"Would you like for us to save you one?" Stephen asked.

"No, this is strictly for you, _gyerekek,_ so you may begin learning." There were four people in the small station, and he didn't mind having leftovers, either. The first kill was an important milestone, and they deserved the reward after surviving the journey thus far without incident. Insofar, he'd been keeping them fed on bagged blood he took from a blood drive van, but that was second-rate to having it straight from the source.

They filed in together, looking for all the world like a group of tourists stopping for a top-off, but the moment Connor yanked the doors shut with a solid _thunk,_ they sprang to action. Abby vaulted over the counter, taking the clerk to the ground with a snarling hiss. The clerk's scream, cutting off in a blood-filled gurgling, was enough to startle the other patrons to their feet, only to find the 'tourists' facing them with sharp teeth and shining eyes. One of them managed to scramble to the doors but was met with Connor holding them shut from outside with an iron grip. The human stared up at him with wide, horrified eyes for a split second before Jenny seized the back of his grimy flannel shirt and heaved him backwards.

Connor leant his forehead against the doors and reveled in the sounds of unrestrained slaughter. It'd been years since he indulged in a true and proper free-for-all hunt, and he had almost forgotten how intoxicating the scent of human fear and freshly-spilled blood could be, hearing screams cut off abruptly, the wet sounds of eagerly tearing wisdom teeth in soft flesh. Once he was certain all four were dead, he opened the doors and stepped inside. They were sloppy killers and messy eaters, but that could be corrected with practice. One learnt to walk before running, after all. Stephen approached him with one of the humans' heart in his hands, arms red to the elbow, dripping thick and dark, the way heart blood was supposed to look. "A gift," he said, smiling broadly, wisdom teeth gleaming crimson and ivory.

Shivering with excitement, Connor sank his teeth into the heart. It was all muscle, thick and sinewy, but the taste of rich blood straight from the source was more than enough to make up for it. In London, he'd always taken care not to leave any obvious evidence of a djamphir attack whenever he fed, not wanting to draw the attention of the Order, and it felt damn good to be a proper hunter again, to really let loose.

Licking the last remnants of blood off his fingertips, he picked his way behind the counter where Abby was crouched over the clerk's body, eagerly nuzzling into the gory mess of the man's throat; blood flecked her platinum blond hair. He stepped 'round her and into the back room. He was right. The CCTV wasn't operational and probably hadn't been since 1997, now just there for show. Still, he smashed the equipment beyond hope of recovery just to be certain. Poking his head out of the room, he called, "Make sure to clean yourselves up in the loo and change your clothes before you get back in the truck. Blood's a right bitch to get out of the upholstery. Stephen, come gimme a hand with the safe."

Waste not, want not.

* * *

The state of the small truck-stop loo was enough for Jenny to be grateful that as a djamphir, she was now immune to human disease. The stench of raw bleach didn't do much to cover the underlying scents of stale urine and vomit, and she wrinkled her nose distastefully. She picked her way across the dirty floor to the small sink against the wall. She would've liked to keep the blood under her nails and freckling her skin, but that was too obvious, and she'd get it on the inside of the truck, too. She pulled off her soiled clothes and tried to scrub the worst of the bloodstains out in the sink; she was no longer uncomfortable standing naked as she would've been. There was no reason _to_ be uncomfortable.

Jenny was washing the blood off her hands and arms in the sink when the door of the loo swung open. She glanced up into the dirty, spotted mirror and saw Nick standing there, holding a spare set of clothes under an arm and staring at her in a mix of awe, lust, and hunger. The fresh blood and first kill had revived him, pushing out the last vestiges of sickness. She turned around to face him, gripping the edge of the countertop in both hands.

They hadn't the chance to be alone since she first woke up, though he was there when she did, holding her against his chest and stroking her hair. She could remember how much it had hurt, thinking she'd lost him forever. Even now, her heart quivered to think of it. The soft human Jenny had never told Nick how much she cared for him, unable to find her courage. But the new Jenny could. She would never live without this man again, not if she could help it. A great swell of emotion bubbled up in her and threatened to choke her with knotted red thread that she couldn't see, all her sharp, shiny-new being bursting with it. She'd call it love. There was no better word that fit, though in actuality, it was so much _more._

She held out both her arms to him, though she was not asking for her clothes. She smelt his desire thick in the air, and then she no longer cared about the stink of the loo or the dirtiness of the floor. He took her against the sink, his jacket hanging about the both of them and her clothes on the counter beside them as she bucked her hips in rhythm with his thrusts. Jenny clutched at his back, keening eagerly in delight, the air rich with the smell of desire and sex. He licked a damp line up her throat then put his teeth to her skin; she bit into him in turn, blood filling her mouth. They stood there for what felt like an eternity, rocking together, each giving and taking in equal measure, an act that was symbolic of their bond, more than just sex and blood, brother and sister and mates, a forging of their own eternity.

Connor, their sire, their blood father, had remade them all so they could be together, and she knew then that it would be forever. They would shag and plunder and kill, and they would all be a family.

 _Home._

* * *

As familiar noises started emanating from the loo, Connor emptied the contents of the safe into a knapsack, humming quietly. He'd already cleaned the register, too, and taken a shiny prize from under the counter: a double-barrel shotgun loaded with packed rock salt instead of birdshot. Stephen and Abby were laughing gleefully as they wrecked the place, smashing knickknacks and tipping shelves. He let them because he knew how much fun it was, and the seemingly random destruction would throw off the coppers, when they found this place.

By the time he finished, Jenny and Nick had joined them, both of them in clean clothes, smelling of sex and each other. "Here, go put these in the boot, could you?" he asked, holding out the knapsack to Jenny and the shotgun to Nick. "You know how to use it?"

"Aye," Nick replied happily. "I used to go rabbit hunting with these."

"Good man." Connor ducked beneath the counter again, found a box of shells, and passed them to the Scotsman. "Take them too, then let's get a move on."

Once Abby and Stephen both changed their clothes and everyone was blood-spatter free, they loaded up the boot with their prizes and were on the road again. Relieved of day-sickness, Nick took over driving, as he was the only other one that knew how to drive stick. Jenny sat in the front with him, her hand resting possessively and seductively on his thigh, tracing the line of his femoral artery with one fingernail.

Connor told them to follow the map and the road signs until they reached Fort Hancock, Texas, which was situated directly on the US/Mexico border and to wake him once they were there. From there, it was just a hop, skip, and jump down through Central America to the great southern wilderness of the rainforests.

Once they were safely away from the truck stop, he returned to the backseat of the truck and laid out across Abby and Stephen's laps, much the way Nick had done earlier with the girls. He'd been driving most of the week and was well-tired. He laid his head in Abby's lap, her fingers playing gently in his hair, and closed his eyes. Stephen was reading a paperback novel he'd found in the stop. Abby was playing with Connor's hair, idly chattering about the various reptilian life in the Brazilian region. In the front, Nick was humming along to a Sex Pistols song on the radio, and Jenny was studying the map, plotting the best way, all of them flush and replete with fresh blood and sex.

Connor smiled.

This was the sodding _life._


	5. The Chronicles

Excerpt taken from the _Chronicles_ in the Mages' Guild, Codex:

 **Djamphir (Species)** —what humans mistakenly call 'vampires,' djamphir are a subspecies of demon which thrive upon blood and create others by infecting humans. Unlike most demon subspecies, they appear completely human when their fangs are retracted, which makes identification more difficult. Personality-wise, djamphir are considered the distilled essence of their human selves; they have little to no conscience or mercy and are known to be ruthlessly practical. They have great amounts of stamina, strength, and agility, as well as extremely heightened senses and an increased healing factor allowing them to survive enormous damage without being crippled, even regenerating limbs. Sunlight, holy water, religious items, and garlic do no damage despite common myth. They do not require coffins or grave dirt in which to sleep. They have retractable teeth which extend over their human set when feeding, the only demonic trait they possess; when fully retracted, these teeth are completely invisible. They may eat normal food, but they must have blood to survive; without it, they will enter a feral state and eventually starve to death. A rare few djamphir possess the ability to work blood magic, and even fewer can work earth magic. Most, however, possess other gifts largely driven towards the attraction and seduction of humans from whom they feed.

Another feature separating them from most demonic species, djamphir feel their family ties very strongly and thrive best in groups, known as clans. Djamphir familial ties are much different than those of humans', though most of it is largely a mystery, as they do not readily interact with non-djamphir creatures. A fledgling (newly made) djamphir will refer to their sire as their parent, any other fledglings sired by that parent as siblings, and the sire of their sire as a grandparent, and so on and so forth. However, these bonds can be far more complex than simple titles. There is also a factor of dominance and age. The leader of a clan is usually a master (a djamphir exceeding 150 years of age and strong enough to sire others) though if there is no master present, the oldest, strongest, or wisest will become leader, though it is uncertain how this matter is settled. They are even reputed to mate for life, and when one has a life expectancy of several millennia, it is a formidable commitment. Should a member of the clan be killed, the remaining members will go to great lengths to exact their vengeance against the responsible parties. There was a documented case in Aldershot, 1877, where a djamphir clan was trapped and executed by a strike team from the _**Order of Puritatem Hominem**_. Only a single individual escaped. After enlisting the help of various other creatures and another clan from nearby Guildford to track and eliminate the strike team, the individual asked to be executed by his own kind. One of the first victims from his clan was his mate of 87 years, and he is reported to have said there was 'no point in continuing existence without her or their family.'

Djamphir are usually nomadic, drifting from city to city to avoid being detected. However, an older, wiser master may establish a permanent territory. When they do establish a permanent lair, they become notoriously territorial and rarely ever allow others to hunt inside the boundaries of their land. If there are ever several djamphir observed hunting in a single city, it may suggest they are part of a clan. All confirmed djamphir clans are to be placed on the Observation Lists.

* * *

Excerpt taken from the _Chronicles_ in the Mages' Guild, European Sector:

 **The Blood Prince; _a Véres Herceg,_ Hungarian (Djamphir)** —András Báthory, son of **_Countess Erzsébet Báthory_** , also his sire, known by his title in numerous languages. Described as a young man, approximately mid-twenties, fair-skinned and dark-haired, with eyes that can hypnotize the unsuspecting and weak-willed. Born in Castle Csejte, Čachtice, a region in the Little Carpathians that is now Slovakia but was before Upper Hungary, in 1596, at the beginning of the Ottoman War. Human records report he died of illness in 1603 at the age of 7. The reason for this falsification is unknown, though considering his heritage and location, it is possible that his false death was a ploy to ensure that a member of the royal family would survive should the war turn against them. None of the other Báthory children were turned into djamphir.

He is highly intelligent, calculating, inventive, resourceful, and solitary. There is no record of any fledglings, despite having master status. He is able to perform basic-level earth magic but excels in blood magic. There are at least six confirmed instances of rival djamphir destroyed by magical means after attempting to forcibly roust him from his territory. He has also revolutionised the way djamphir hunt and feed in the modern era. Rather than hunting for humans on a piecemeal basis, he invented the method of slowly harvesting blood from a single human for many days and storing it at low temperatures, making him harder to trace due to lack of typical djamphir hunting patterns.

Unlike most djamphir, the Blood Prince is known for being very accepting of humans, reportedly protecting the humans living in his territory from other creatures and even living under the guise of a human for periods of time. The reasoning behind this behaviour is as of yet unexplained. No Observer has ever been able to come near enough to him, though many have put forth their own hypotheses. He has shown this same tolerance towards other non-human species that pass through his territory, though only when they are strictly non-hostile towards humans. In August of 1761, he rescued Acolyte James Miller, son of High Priestess Violet and High Priest Briar, and made an appearance inside the Mages' Guild in order to return Acolyte Miller safely. However, he vanished before any inquiry could be made.

Note: unlike most djamphir, he has a specific modus operandi when hunting. All known victims have been confirmed criminals, including but not limited to narcotic dealers and producers, pimps, paedophiles, and rapists; the few bodies recovered all bear signs of extended torture. This suggests an unusual vestige of human ethics remaining after the turning.

The Blood Prince has yet to be registered as an active threat but remains on the Observation List.

* * *

Excerpt taken from the _Chronicles_ in the Mages' Guild, South American Sector:

 **Fortaleza Clan (Djamphir)** —four to five individuals strong. Most likely several younger members under the guidance of a single, older master djamphir. No direct contact has yet been made, remaining well-hidden. All information hence has been gathered from rumours, various eyewitness accounts, and similar local sources and cannot be confirmed as fact yet. Likely members include two males—purportedly one pale-haired, one darker, both blue eyed, both adults—known as _Os Irmãos Sangramento_ in Portuguese, _Los Hermanos de Sangre_ in Spanish. Translated: the Bleeding Brothers. The Brothers usually rescue children from abusive parents. The adults will vanish from their homes for several days, during which the Brothers will inflict every pain visited on the child or children onto the parents, torture them to death in various, sometimes inventive ways, and leave the bodies strung up and displayed as if in warning. The rescued children often build shrines dedicated to them, believing the duo to be avenging angels. In many villages and towns, street vendors may be found selling tin pendants engraved with the likeness of two men, one bearing a whip, the other a sword, meant to invoke the protection of _Santos Hermanos de Sangre._ Whether or not they actually use these weapons is uncertain. If an individual wearing the _Santos Hermanos_ pendant is found to be an abuser, then it is supposed the Brothers will drag them into Hell for _el Diablo_ himself to punish. However, it is more likely that the Brothers torture, kill, and dispose of the body elsewhere.

Other likely members of the Fortaleza Clan include two females. _A Bela Morte_ in Portuguese, _La Bella Muerte_ in Spanish. Translation: the Beautiful Death. It is unclear whether or not the name applies to one of the females or if it is a shared title similar to the _Hermanos._ Both are reported to be so beautiful that they could tempt angels and devils alike, though physical description varies from case to case. This suggests either the females change their appearances between hunts or have the ability to entrance humans in order to confuse them, a more likely option. These djamphir have a specific victim profile similar to the _Hermanos,_ again suggesting that they are part of the same clan or are working together. They are rumoured to play the part of vulnerable and helpless women in order to lure human males—particularly sexual predators, physical abusers, and pimps—who would take advantage of them. Their victims disappear for several days during which neither female is seen, which suggests they both partake in feeding on a single victim. The bodies then appear on the steps of the nearest cathedral, usually bearing signs of prolonged torture.

The corpses of both the males' and females' victims reappear completely drained of blood, which is unusual. Most djamphir take only enough blood to satisfy them (approximately 1 ½ pints) and then hunt again when they grow hungry. Complete exsanguination, coupled with the unusually long wait period between kills, suggests that these djamphir may be storing the excess blood for later consumption or perhaps to feed the master djamphir leading the clan, who as of yet has gone unseen.

Note: the unusually ethical selection of victim, when taken in context with extended torture, complete exsanguination, and intermittent hunting pattern suggests a possible connection to **_The Blood Prince,_** a master djamphir from the European Sector with a similar modus operandi.

The Fortaleza Clan has yet to be registered an active threat but remains on the Observation List.


End file.
